Seance for a Vampire

Seven

Ascending briefly to my room, I changed my clothing and washed my hands. Under the circumstances, sleeping in Norberton House for even an hour was of course out of the question, and I promptly came downstairs again. In the midst of the excitement already prevailing in the household, my announcement that I must return to London as soon as possible created no particular stir.

On my orders, the unconscious form of Abraham Kirkaldy had already been carried into the house and placed on a sofa in a sitting room next to the library. A local physician well known to the Altamonts had been called in, and I was quickly relieved of any further responsibility for the patient. I am sure that the local police would have preferred that I remain in the house along with the other witnesses, but Merivale quietly overruled them. He had a carriage outside, he said, and offered to drive me to the station.

Armstrong immediately spoke up and volunteered to convey me there more speedily, in his motorcar.

I thought that the young American had some particular reason for wanting to speak to me in private, or at least without the inevitable interruptions to which our conversation would be subject in the house, and so I accepted his offer. but just as we were about to leave, Inspector Merivale suddenly announced his intention of accompanying us.

It was perhaps six o’clock in the morning when the forty-horsepower engine of Armstrong’s Mercedes allowed itself to be cranked to life and the three of us departed from the sleepless Altamont household. Few people in the other houses we passed appeared to be stirring, though the summer sun had risen more than an hour earlier.

Armstrong’s motive for creating an opportunity of serious, uninterrupted conversation with me–I thought he rather welcomed a chance at the inspector also–was soon apparent. While driving, the young man strove earnestly to impress us both with the importance of an unremitting effort, made by all concerned, to find his living bride-to-be.

Armstrong was unshaven and looked haggard, as I daresay we all did following our sleepless night. but the young man was also intensely animated, and his whole bearing and attitude testified to his high elation.

Despite his weariness, the gaze he turned on me was luminous and triumphant. “She’s alive, Dr. Watson–you saw her!”

His enthusiasm aroused in me only a mixture of darker emotions. “Is she?” I replied. “I can swear only that I saw someone enter the library while we sat round the table. It was a woman, I believe. A vague shape moving in almost total darkness.”

My answer failed to dampen Armstrong’s cheeriness. “but you didn’t get as close to her as I did. And you had never met Louisa before last night. It was she, I have no doubt of that!”

In fact, it seemed to me that during the confusion on the terrace, I might have, for a moment, approached the apparition almost as closely as had Armstrong. And I was only too certain of what I had seen, in the way of a mouth stained with human gore–and of what I had not seen in the reflecting glass. but there was nothing to be gained by arguing the point with Armstrong.

The young man’s state of exaltation persisted. He continued to murmur joyous variations on his central theme: that his beloved Louisa was still alive.

But from time to time, his overpowering joy in the survival of his beloved alternated with fresh concern about the dangers which she might even now be facing.

“There are the two mediums–Inspector, you must have the truth out of them!”

My medical experience told me that Abraham Kirkaldy was dying, and would almost certainly never be fit to answer questions, even though the Altamonts were determined to provide him with the best care possible. but Sarah Kirkaldy was still on the scene and capable of speech, though presently in a state of shock; and Armstrong expressed his determination to have the full truth from her as soon as possible.

Merivale, looking at the young man with curiosity, assured him grimly that Sarah had already been seriously questioned, that a police matron had been summoned to stay with her, and that further intensive interrogation was planned. Also the background of both Kirkaldys would be thoroughly checked out.

I was firmly convinced that Armstrong’s current views regarding his beloved were mistaken, and I was determined not to encourage them.

“I think,” I said, “that the investigation from now on must certainly follow a different course.”

“You bet it will!” And Armstrong had nothing more meaningful to say until we were inside the station waiting for the train.

We had reached the station in ample time, there being no sign as yet of the early train. At that hour we had the platform to ourselves. For a minute or two we stood waiting, I with my bag beside me, when Armstrong suddenly burst out again, as if with the enthusiasm of some fresh discovery: “She’s alive, Watson! Do you realize that?”

Still I could not even pretend to share the young man’s passion. In his innocence he meant, of course, that Louisa Altamont was still alive in the normal breathing sense–and I had seen convincing evidence that that could not be so. Again I muttered something noncommittal.

Armstrong sobered, seeing my doubts; but he had misinterpreted them. He added: “Not that she is safe, of course. Yes, I quite see that. They–whoever they are–have kidnapped her. Yes, I think there can be no other explanation. So my darling is still in deadly danger, and therefore I say we must move quickly.”

“Kidnapped!”

He blinked at me, and then at the inspector. “Yes. Surely you see it now? behind it all must be an attempt to get at Louisa’s parents, to extort money from them–that must be it. You heard the words she was compelled to say, about seeking the return of some stolen treasure?”

“I daresay we all heard something of the kind.” And I exchanged looks with Merivale, who had been listening to us intently and who, from his helpless expression, appeared to be drifting farther and farther out to sea.

“Well, then!” Armstrong paced and gestured expansively. “Naturally the Kirkaldys must be involved in the plot. They would know clever ways, conjurer’s tricks, for bringing a person in and out of a locked and sealed room, like the library last night. but they’re obviously not the chief villains. You’ve only to talk to Sarah, and look at what’s happened to her brother, to understand that. Someone else must be the brains behind the whole affair. Someone else who was there in the dark last night, and who struck down Abraham. Inspector, you agree with me, don’t you? You see how things must stand?”

Merivale heaved a sigh. “Can’t say I feel confident just yet, sir, that we have any explanation that’ll properly fit all the facts. but it looks like murder now, and you may rest assured that we’ll do our best to get to the bottom of the business.”

I really believe young Armstrong did not hear this reply, that he was aware only of its soothing tone; for even as the words were spoken, he had gone momentarily rapt again, lost in the exaltation of knowing that his Louisa–as he thought–still breathed. but a few seconds later he had once more turned to me, wearing a puzzled look.

“Watson, excuse me, but did I miss something? I fail to understand why you’re so anxious to return to London before Louisa has been located–and while Mr. Holmes is still missing. It seems to me that if he’s really been taken captive as you suggest, the same people must be holding both of them.”

I gave some excuse regarding my old war wound and murmured something to the effect that I should not be of much help in searching the countryside. In addition, I assured the young man, there were matters in London which demanded my immediate attention. Meanwhile, of course, I was privately sure in which direction lay my only real hope of helping Holmes.

Inspector Merivale had so far made no comment regarding my eagerness to depart, and offered none now. but the Scotland Yard man smiled at me in a knowing and yet irritated way; his expression seemed to say that he was well aware some secret purpose must underlie my removal to London–that the disappearance of Holmes had very likely been a deliberate contrivance, part of some scheme carefully worked out in advance by the great detective, which I was privileged to share to some degree; and that he, the inspector, rather resented being left out of the intrigue.

In the circumstances I could say or do little to assure him that such was not the case.

“Mesmerism, that’s it,” Armstrong suddenly announced with an air of triumph. Looking at each of us in turn, he nodded decisively. Evidently during his intervals of abstraction, the young American was working out, to his own satisfaction the details of a theory explaining the mystery of Louisa’s reappearance.

“‘Mesmerism’?” the inspector inquired wearily.

“Yes. As I said before, it has to be some kind of a gang, very well organized, and they’ve been holding her captive under a hypnotic influence. Nothing else will quite explain all the details, such as Louisa’s being compelled to say exactly what they wanted, when she was among us.”

Merivale, whose night must have been very nearly as sleepless as Armstrong’s or my own, drew a long, slow breath, and then at last gave vent to his irritation. “See here, sir, we’d better get one or two things straight right now.”

“Yes?”

Merivale’s voice was blunt. “Did you, or did you not, see Miss Louisa Altamont lying dead, less than a month ago? Did you not see her put into the family vault?”

“I... had thought I did.” The young American looked grim for a moment. Then his face cleared and he burst out: “but now I know better! Inspector, I am certain that the living girl I saw last night–and touched, and spoke with, in that dark room and on the terrace–I know she was my Louisa. Great God, don’t you suppose I could recognize the one I–?” For a moment his feelings overcame him.

Presently, having recovered himself, Armstrong went on in a calmer voice. Evidently it was only now becoming clear in his mind that the great and joyous fact of Louisa’s resurrection might not be nearly as obvious to others as it was to him.

“As to the identity of the poor girl we buried last month... well, the truth is I was totally mistaken. It’s been said that all dead bodies look alike. It was certainly someone who in life must have strongly resembled Louisa.”

Merivale still fixed him with his steady policeman’s gaze. “You are asking us to believe that the corpse of some stranger–a body that I suppose was conveniently provided by this gang of which you speak– was put into the Altamont family mausoleum. Under Louisa’s name.”

Armstrong only glared back stubbornly.

The inspector persisted. “And their motive?”

“Money.”

“Ah? but I am told that neither of the Kirkaldys has ever asked for money. There was the robbery, of course, though certainly not of any treasure. We have yet to see how that’s connected with the rest. And in my experience, sir, people attempting a swindle or extortion may begin by kidnapping. but not by faking a death, or committing murder, and then bringing back a ghost.”

“Inspector, all I know is that last night–”

Merivale interrupted brutally. “You realize that your theory requires that Louisa’s parents must have been mistaken, too, at the time of the burial? That they did not know their own daughter?”

There was a brief pause before Armstrong replied, but his answer when it came was serene with quiet triumph: “They knew her last night. And so did I.”

Merivale was momentarily taken aback. but then, seemingly determined to settle once and for all this theory of a revived Louisa, the inspector returned relentlessly to the attack. “Forgive me, sir, I know these are painful matters, but if we are to take your theory seriously I must probe into them.”

“Go ahead.”

“Very well. My understanding is that the body–that of the drowned girl you buried last month–was not mutilated in any way? In particular, there was no injury about the face?”

The youth heaved a great sigh. “No. The coroner of course concluded that she had died of drowning. Scarcely a scratch was visible, as I recall. Except for the rigor of death, the girl’s face was quite undamaged. but ah, what a difference, now that I look back! How could I have ever been deceived? Dead is dead, while Louisa is so, so essentially, unquenchably alive...”

Certain ineradicable memories, acquired in 1897, prompted me to break in with a question: “Were there any wounds, even small ones, elsewhere than on the face?”

Both men looked round blankly at my unexpected interruption. Then Armstrong responded: “Nothing of importance, as far as I know. Now that you mention it, it seems to me that the coroner did mention two small scratches, or punctures, on the throat. but I noticed nothing of the kind. Perhaps the mortician could tell you more about the details of the poor girl’s condition–whoever she was.”

Merivale was frowning at an Americanism. “‘Mortician’? You mean the undertaker? Ah, just so.” The inspector nodded, then asked: “Once again, either at the time of the tragedy or since, have Louisa’s mother or father ever expressed the slightest doubt that the body found on the bank of the river was their daughter’s?”

“They have given no sign of any such uncertainty,” Armstrong admitted.

“Even now?”

“Even now,” Martin reluctantly agreed. It was his turn to sigh. “I talked with both of them just before we left the house. They both realize now that it was truly Louisa who came to us last night–but they insist on regarding her as some kind of ghost, or ectoplasmic form.” The young American shook his head in pitying amusement. “They’ve both been taken in by this spiritualist nonsense.”

And he continued to insist that his beloved Louisa was not dead, had never been dead, but that she had been somehow imprisoned or enslaved, and must be rescued.

Suddenly, pacing the platform and then spinning round on his heel to confront Merivale, he had a new suggestion: “It occurs to me that there’s a simple answer, Inspector. If you doubt what I am telling you, have the body exhumed. If you cannot find the living woman, you know where the dead one lies. There must be, if we look for it, some difference discoverable to prove that that poor girl in the tomb is not Louisa Altamont.”

The inspector growled something to the effect that, unless the girl’s parents suggested such a course, he could not consider it.

I for my part endeavored to be comforting, insofar as that was possible without contributing to the false hopes Armstrong had so rapidly built up. The inevitable crash of disillusionment, when it came, would be violent indeed. With our adventure of 1897 in mind, I feared that exhumation might very well disclose inexplicable horror; and I was perfectly certain that nothing in the way of comfort was at all likely to result.

And yet I could tell no one openly that the conclusion I had drawn from the apparition was quite different from young Armstrong’s–and from any speculative theory of Inspector Merivale’s. While Armstrong had concentrated entirely on the essential presence of that white figure, I had carefully observed the mystery of its coming and going, the fact of its passing unhindered through locked doors or windows. Above all, I had noted the absence of any reflection in the mirror formed by the windows–and all I had observed had taken me back six years.

Abruptly the young American, seemingly unable to contain his excitement, and evidently despairing for the moment of making us see the glorious truth, announced that he was driving back to Norberton House at once, and asked if the inspector wanted to return with him.

Merivale shook his head. “No, sir, thank you; I’m going to try to get an hour or two of sleep here at my inn. I’m fair beat, and I’ve already arranged for a room arranged at the Saracen’s Head.” The distinctive signboard of that establishment could be seen clearly, swinging slightly in the morning breeze, not a hundred yards from where we were standing, down the main street of the village.

Armstrong did not delay, but left us with an impatient wave; in a few moments he had cranked his motor into roaring life again, and was gone, leaving a faint cloud of dust hanging in the village air.

In the ensuing silence, the inspector and I were left alone, at least for a few moments, on the platform at Amberley Station. There were indications that this time alone would be brief, for already the whistle of the oncoming train could be heard and the smoke of its engine was visible above some distant trees.

Merivale began by informing me frankly that he did not know what to make of the claim that Louisa Altamont might be still alive.

“See here, Dr. Watson, I’ll put my trust in you as a steady, reasonable observer of last night’s events. And as a student of the whole affair up to this point. No doubt Mr. Holmes, before he went away, shared with you all his thoughts on the subject?”

With that the inspector fell silent, assuming an expectant look I found quite irritating. I said: “I am afraid that Mr. Holmes does not always share his thoughts with me. As for last night’s apparition, I never approached it quite as closely as did either Armstrong or the Altamonts–or Sherlock Holmes. And of course I was never acquainted with the girl in life.”

“I see.” Merivale, hands behind his back, leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. Again, delicately stroking his mustache, he frowned as if he still thought I might be holding something back. “First, in the interest of thoroughness, let me be absolutely clear on one point. Does Mr. Holmes have any theory along that line–that Louisa Altamont might still be living?” His deprecating smile indicated what answer he fully expected to receive.

I did my best, in my exhausted state, to consider my reply carefully. I was constrained by the fact that, at some future point, it might become necessary, regardless of the risk to my reputation, to reveal all to the police. “I cannot say that he had ruled out the possibility,” I responded finally.

Merivale’s jaw dropped, and he stared at me in astonishment. “by all that’s holy! You mean the young chap might be right? Then who was it that her parents buried here three weeks ago?”

Already I regretted my first reply. “Inspector... I will say this much: I believe you would be wise to delay any inquiries along that line, until... until you are able to consult with Holmes himself upon the subject.”

Merivale scratched his head, then smoothed his mustache. “Well, I suppose that’s not much to ask; Lord knows, there are plenty of trails to follow that look more promising. Those two mediums, to begin with.”

We briefly discussed other aspects of the case, including the mysterious jewel robbery, before my train pulled into the station.

Merivale’s parting advice, as I climbed aboard, was to get some rest. “As I told the young man, Dr. Watson, that’s what I intend to do myself. I had a full day yesterday and I’m about at my own limit. A couple of hours’ sleep, then back to work. by noon I’ll have twenty men on the job here, and I promise you we’ll find Mr. Holmes if he’s still in the area–and willing to be found.”

I muttered something in response, and repressed an urge to underline for the inspector the fact that neither Holmes nor I had yet turned fifty. Though Merivale had actually said nothing about my age, it seemed to me that in his urging me to rest there was a certain almost-patronizing tone, that of a grown son or daughter looking after an aged parent. A strong implication that neither Holmes nor I were as young as we once were, and that in dealing with the twentieth century and its affairs, we must expect to find ourselves occasionally too exhausted to keep up.

In fact I dozed on the train, caring not what the other passengers in my carriage might think.

It was a little before noon when I disembarked from a cab in baker Street, and saw the first newspaper headlines proclaiming that Sherlock Holmes had disappeared. Other sensational aspects of the previous night’s events were also featured in large print.

MYSTERIOUS SÉANCE IN BUCKS

SHERLOCK HOLMES MISSING

FAMOUS DETECTIVE ABDUCTED TO OTHER WORLD?

‘DEAD’ HEIRESS STILL ALIVE?

It occurred to me that one or more of the servants at Norberton House had very likely been talking to reporters–and only then did I belatedly recall that Armstrong himself was a journalist, probably not loath to report on private matters to his London colleagues if by doing so he thought he could facilitate the search for Louisa.

I ignored the inspector’s well-meant advice to get some rest. (And did my best to put out of my mind his insinuations, however well-founded, on the subject of age.) Instead I nerved myself for my next task, that of summoning a vampire. I fully expected that the experience would not be pleasant, though its exact nature still remained to be discovered.